


Soap from the Bath

by tellywhich



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, M/M, No Smut, POV John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-09-20 04:38:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9476012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tellywhich/pseuds/tellywhich
Summary: There's barely time for John to scarf down breakfast before Sherlock swoops in to demand his help on a case. It looks like it's going to be just another adventurous day at 221B Baker Street. Except John didn't account for the fact that his genius boyfriend might actually have some romantic tendencies, after all.





	

**Author's Note:**

> My very first fic, and I'm relieved to have finally gotten around to posting it! Pure Johnlock fluff, with a teensy bit of angst. Not specifically connected to the BBC Sherlock timeline in any way. Sherlock/John-centered with brief appearances by the other characters. Also, I abhor the "Bury Your Gays" trope, so I added a lot of happy endings for good measure.
> 
> Okay, off to work on my new project - writing a different version of TFP. Wish me luck!
> 
> Update as of September 2017 - I shelved my TFP fix-it in favor of working on some other fics that have been clamoring for my attention.

I was just settling into my chair in the sitting room when Sherlock strode into the room, naked and dripping wet but for the bath towel that he was using to dry himself. This marked Mrs. Hudson's second near-miss of the morning. She'd left just moments ago, after dropping off some biscuits from the market. I'd likely have to have a talk with her about knocking at the door, sooner rather than later.

“Come on, John. Get dressed,” Sherlock said. “I've figured out the missing piece for the case. We must go to St. Bart's immediately.”

“Sherlock, you're still covered in soap.”

“Never mind that,” he muttered, wiping the soap bubbles off his back with the towel. “Get dressed and meet me downstairs,” he called over his shoulder, as he strode back toward the bedroom.

“For heaven's sake-” I began, but he closed the door behind him. _Our_ bedroom door. For some reason, this infuriated me. I took a deep breath and strode down the hall after him, tightening the belt of my robe as I walked. Just before my hand could touch the knob, the door flew open, and Sherlock nearly bowled me over in his haste. I couldn't imagine how he had possibly dressed so quickly, while still managing to look fit and put together in a way I could never seem to manage.

“Hurry up, John,” he said, his eyes already far away as he pushed past me.

“Sherlock,” I said, using my sternest tone. “I'm not coming along this time.”

It was my only day off in weeks, and I'd be damned if I spent it jogging all about town after my long-legged partner.

“Suit yourself,” Sherlock said, his voice deepening with an unexpressed pout, his eyes scanning me. He leaned forward and kissed me brusquely, then was off down the hall again.

“Now, wait a minute!” I followed him into the sitting room. “Bloody hell, Sherlock, can you stand still for a moment and look at me?”

“No.” He was already donning his overcoat.

I sighed. “Wait. I'll get dressed. _Don't leave without me._ ”

In my haste, I tore open my dressing gown, disrobing as I walked back to the bedroom. This got his attention for a moment, but he pressed his lips together and looked away, securing his blue scarf around his neck.

“You have a minute,” he said, and went careening down the stairs.

“A minute?” I muttered to myself. “How generous. How _very_ generous.”

 

I dashed into the bedroom, hating that I was rushing on his behalf, but I knew he would actually leave me behind. And then where would I be? I paused a moment. I'd be exactly where I wanted to be. Home. Relaxing.

I worried sometimes that my capacity for living a boring, work-a-day sort of life was quickly being eroded by Sherlock's need for constant adventure. But, deep down inside, I knew I'd always been this way. Addicted to danger, the thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through my veins...

I was dressed and ready roughly 3 minutes later, though I refused to run down the stairs. The taxi was still waiting outside, the door open, Sherlock sitting in the far seat, furiously texting on his mobile.

“I can't believe you're still here,” I said as I got in.

He murmured an unintelligible noise in response. I closed the door and the taxi cab pulled away from the kerb.

 

We rode in silence for a bit, until I got restless.

“It'll be nice to see Molly again,” I commented. No response. I continued, undeterred. “I like Molly quite a bit.”

Sherlock was growing increasingly fidgety, moving from side to side in the seat.

“Idiots! Can't follow the simplest instructions!” he snarled suddenly, typing another text then vehemently throwing his mobile onto the seat between us. I looked down and he quickly turned it so that I couldn't see the screen. “What did you say, John?”

I took a breath, trying not to absorb his mood.

“I said it will be nice to see Molly again.”

“Oh,” he said dismissively, turning to look out the window, still fidgeting. He surreptitiously reached under his overcoat and tried to scratch his back, but gave up when he saw me watching.

“It must be the soap making your back itch, love,” I said.

“Obvious.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Are you quite satisfied?”

“Not really.” I was trying not to smile, but damn was it hard. “Well...just a little. Shall I scratch your back?”

“Don't be romantic,” he scoffed, slouching down so his knees pressed against the back of the passenger seat.

 

Moments later, the taxi pulled up to the kerb at St. Bart's, and I started to retrieve my wallet.

Sherlock held out a hand to stop me. “I've got it this time.”

I looked at him in shock. “Really?”

“Just get out. But wait for me on the pavement.”

“Now _why_ did I bother to come along?” I muttered to myself as I stepped out of the taxi. “Nobody gets away with talking to me like that.” Except Sherlock, of course.

Sherlock came dashing over, pushing me aside lightly.

“Let me go first.”

I pushed him back. “And what if I don't?”

He turned and pinned me with his blue eyes. I shook free of the look and squared my jaw.

“What's going on, Sherlock?” I asked. “You're worse than ever today. I deserve better, you know?” I stepped closer, glaring up into his face. Much to my surprise, he licked his lips nervously, a flash of uncertainty flickering in his gaze before he managed to compose himself.

“Not now, John,” he said, his face impassive once again. “Follow me.”

And then he was off. Again. I stood for a moment, contemplating the possibility of turning around and going back to the flat. It would serve him right, too. I imagined his expression when he realized I'd gone. Or rather, I imagined his lack of expression. Sighing, I caught the swinging door before it finished closing and followed him into the hospital.

 

When I caught up to him, he was at the door to Molly's lab, tapping his foot impatiently as I took my time making my way down the corridor. The lights were out, which was disappointing, as I was rather looking forward to seeing Molly. She was so kind, and seemed to know exactly what to say when Sherlock was being his most difficult self.

“After you,” Sherlock said, as I reached the door. I gave him a look and stepped into the room, fumbling for the light switch. The fluorescent lights flickered on.

“Surprise! Happy Birthday!”

I was most certainly surprised. The room was crowded with smiling faces. Greg was chatting with Molly and Stella. Mike and Mrs. Hudson were in the middle of a laugh. Even Harry was there, her arm around Clara, who gave me a smile and a wave. There was a “Happy Birthday” banner hanging clumsily from the lights. Clearly, it had been a last minute addition, as both Molly and Stella were still in their stocking feet, and the cake haphazardly pushed to one side of the table. Molly saw my glance and centered it on the table again. I looked about anxiously, then breathed a sigh of relief. No Mycroft. That would have been taking it a bit far, really.

Sherlock strode into the room, taking me by the waist and swinging me around.

“Surprise!” he said, a crooked grin on his face.

“Right. I am surprised,” I replied, still a bit annoyed. “What about the case?”

Sherlock snorted. “I solved that the minute we walked through the door yesterday. Sent a message to Lestrade soon after, but as it was a convenient excuse for this purpose, I didn't bother mentioning it.”

“Terribly pleased, are we then?”

He looked at me blankly. “You do know I've been planning this since yesterday? And while in the cab?”

“Yes, yes, I get it. You were nervous.”

“Nervous?” Sherlock retorted, puffing up his chest, his eyes flashing. “I don't get nervous.”

“Well, come on in then,” Harry called out. “We've been waiting ages for you to get here!”

“Yes, just a moment,” I snapped. I grabbed Sherlock's arm as he started into the room. He read my expression with a quick glance, and I crossed my arms for emphasis.

“Oh dear, they're having a domestic at their own party,” Mrs. Hudson commented, and everybody laughed. I flushed a bit at this, but kept my eyes on Sherlock's.

“Fine,” he murmured, his gaze raking across the room for a moment. “I was just a _bit_ nervous. I'm sorry I was so churlish earlier.”

I frowned. “You do know it's not actually my birthday?”

Sherlock's mouth quirked at the corners, his eyes sparkling.

“Oh, come now, John, don't be stupid.” He uncrossed my arms and pulled me closer. “Why would I attempt to surprise you on your actual day of birth? You're too smart. You'd see right through me.” He let his guard down completely then, despite the crowd in the room, and looked at me with such a tender expression that I smiled despite myself.

“You really think so?”

“Of course.”

“Well, at any rate,” I said, wrapping my arms around his waist and drawing him closer. “You've given yourself away now. The next time you behave churlishly I'll know to expect a party.”

Sherlock chuckled, but his smile faded as our eyes met. How could he possibly have known what this day meant to me? I never told him the exact day that I was injured in the war. I never told him that as I lay on the stretcher, being carried out of Afghanistan for good, I swore I would do things differently from then on. Despite the pain and fear, that day felt like the first day of my real life. It was the first day I became willing to stop living such a terrible lie. And soon after, of course, Sherlock strode boldly into my life, completely irresistible, flooding me with a desire that I was finally brave enough to name.

“You always know somehow,” I murmured. “You're always so bloody brilliant. Just _bloody_ _brilliant_.”

The crowd hooted and cheered as Sherlock took my face in his hands and pulled me into a kiss, both of us grinning like fools. I slid my hands underneath his coat, untucked his shirt tail, and began to scratch his back.

“You old romantic,” he groaned, collapsing against me, his lips still touching mine.

“Oy, you lads, get a room!” Greg shouted, to the delight of the other guests.

I pulled away, my face warm with embarrassment.

“And how isn't this party a romantic gesture?” I asked hotly.

Sherlock smirked, then stepped back and grabbed my hand.

“Come along, John. Let's have some cake.”

 


End file.
